Years ago my father introduced me to a tradition that was able to bring peace into our relationship.  My parents divorced when I was about ten years old and my Dad moved south, far away from me.  We really didn’t speak often as my parents had one of those horrendous divorces.  I probably saw him a half a dozen times before heading to college in Burlington, VT.

 Needless to say, we did not have much in common and frankly, I kept myself slightly aloof from him as he left long ago…During college he began making attempts to be a part of my life.  He would take me skiing with my boyfriend, send money finally and call more often.   

One memorial weekend he asked me if I would like to do the graves with him.  Strangely enough that was one place we both liked to go – cemeteries.  We both liked wandering around old graveyards reading headstones and admiring the artistry of the marble works.   

 My Dad grew up in Middlebury, VT.  Most of that side of the family still lives there and our relatives are buried in several different cemeteries in the area.  I agreed, although not really knowing what I was getting into.  He picked me up early that Sunday morning and I looked in the backseat to see all kinds of supplies – gardening tools, cups and to my surprise, chilled champagne. 

 We began chatting about where we were going first and my Dad started telling stories.  He loves telling stories, but this time the stories were of friends he had lost in Vietnam, Uncles wounded in WWII and scandalous adventures of my family I never knew.  I laughed, really laughed and I saw my father for the first time as more than the man that left.

 He was flawed certainly, but he was trying.  Trying to become a family again.  I saw for the first time how young he was when my parents got married and I found compassion that was not there before. 

 At each grave we cleared away the weeds, and planted pansies and marigolds.  We offered champagne toasts and funny stories to those long gone.  Quietly, without knowing when, a gentle peace had slipped into my Dad and my relationship.

 I finally had come to love my father again.  I realized wasn’t abandoned any longer.  I had found my way back to him and this family through the memories and stories of those long past.  That day, together, we found peace again in pansies and laughter.  This peace has made all the difference and I am grateful. 

Happy Memorial Day!  May peace find each of us.

The other day as I ate lunch in a café and two tables over sat a new couple.  The man was in his fifties with a sleek, fit physique and a silly soul patch on his chin.  His date – attractive, late twenties, yoga attired leaned in for a kiss.  Not a daughter kiss, but a real lingering kind.  I shuttered, ugh, get a room.

 Ok, yes, I might sound cruel, maybe a bit, but let me explain, I was that idiot girl dating too old men in my twenties.  I loved them, perfect dates – gentlemen, paid for everything.  We went to cool places and I was still an idiot.  Every stupid, idiotic “what-not-to-do” when dating mistake I have ever made happened while dating older men. 

 These are some of my favorites, “Oh no I don’t mind that you are two hours late, just calling now, to explain the business meeting rolled into supper so you wouldn’t be coming over after to all,” or “Sure, I like hot, burn the insides of your mouth food,” or “I know you were too busy with work/your kids to buy me a present for my birthday” and the capper, “of course, I understand you just had to sleep with your old lover when you were in China on business, thanks for your honesty…And since we’re being honest, I also slept with someone while I was in Ireland.”  True story, and happily the relationship crumbled after my statement of a ‘doormat no longer.’

 Every time I think of these stories I can not stop laughing – what was I thinking?  Who replaced the redhead when I wasn’t looking?  And then I recall where I was in my life at that time, I was sad.  I had just gotten out of a long-term relationship, heartbroken and penniless.  I was looking for someone to take care of me and here comes the divorced parade of forty-somethings.  I was easy pickings for awhile - I can’t deny it.  We all gained though – we were just borrowing. 

 These men were borrowing my youth, dare I say my ‘awe’ of them.  They had the answers – knew more, jez, they lived longer after all 15-20 years my senior.  Hence I let them lead without a word really…well, at least until Ireland then all bets were off again. 

 While I dated them, I was borrowing security, support, and honestly, escaping into another world.  I was playing house in some ways and then suddenly, it’s just was not that fun any more.  I didn’t want to borrow security from anyone and I certainly didn’t want to follow for the rest of my days. 

 The concept of borrowing was further emphasized when I read David Schnarch’s The Passionate Marriage where he discusses this borrowing phenomenon in all long-term couples. 

 So, as I glance over and see the overt signs of borrowing, I am also reminded of the three fingers pointing back at me.  What am I borrowing from my husband today?  Is it helping me or hurting me????